Me, You, Mockingbird

Much Madness is divinest Sense to a discerning Eye ~ Emily Dickenson

Sometimes a poem means just what it means. This is inspired by the Wordle of We Write Poems, a play with sound and sense.

Somewhere 

in the Madness Woods,

across the Rabbit Blue 

far beyond the Melting Wind,

"You, me, Mockingbird."

It teases life again, 

faint and growing thin:

Me, 

       You, 

            Mockingbird.

Caterpillars drop from trees

Photo of African Emprer Moth caterpillar taken by Lillian Reddy; borrowed from (and poem inspired by) Kerry O'Connor and Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads

Caterpillars drop 

             From trees,

                Curled with hope

                          And possibility.

                            Watch your tread;

                             Even one less

                          Is one too many.

                      Even one moth

                  Less is chaos, 

              A kingdom

Of infinite loss.

After

AFTER

After, suddenly, 

                     

silence.

Cotton in the ears,

underwater bottom 

quiet.

Stopped clock, 

empty house,

                    

Absence quiet.

Transcendent, ascendant

chrysalis quiet.

On being a poet

On being a poet 

It's awful, having nothing to say,

To sit silent like a toad,

Breathing in and breathing out.

Yet how pleased he seems

To sit, sun and shadows,

Breeze to stir the reeds.

Look how his sides heave,

A bellows of deep rhythms.

Nothing in the bright bead eyes

Of shame or want. No whipping 

For missed flies, regret or condemnation.

Only is. Only am. Only he,

Uncensored by his mind,

Free to breathe. Little Buddha, 

Free to be. 

Old Wounds

OLD WOUNDS

Old scars if rubbed

Will scab and bleed;

Old aches return

With pressure.

A wounded heart

Of anger freed

Heals and breaks

In equal measure

Snow Day

Snow Day

Again, the call disturbing fitful sleep.

The ground, the whole world,

White and swirling.

The children, swaddled, nestled, snug,

Turn in dreams,

Their math the geometry of crystals,

Their compositions written in the sky.

Honk If You Love Jesus

Honk  if you love Jesus

From Heaven, it might sound 

like bleating sheep;

Up close, a gaggle of geese,

warning one another.

Right here, it is the horns 

of locking cars, testifying

that we store up earthly treasures 

against the dangers of church parking.

"Wonder is Not a Disease"

Photo taken from Facebook page

I've been reading a little of the writings of Alan Watts, 20th Century philosopher. I won't try to characterize him or his thinking here, as his beliefs and teachings are too complex for this space and time. You can find much of his work on the Internet or as curated by his son, Mark Watts.

This poem is inspired by a phrase from his writings.

" wonder is not a disease"

In this sac of blood and bone

is wonder,

budding like a leaf, 

whole and green.

This bursting, if not soul, 

what then?

Not rudimentary output,

hair and and skin.

The universe, at once

strange yet familiar,

is self-contained;

imagination blossoms from within.

Natural Shocks

natural shocks

indignities of the body,

leaks and runs

and crusts,

shameful, smelly fissures, 

wheezes --

this is just

another fiery engine

that clicks and steams 

and rusts,

a clock that's sprung,

a race not won,

an hourglass of dust.

Newness of the Year

NEWNESS OF THE YEAR

Your promises are small

And easy,

Golden sweet as honey,

Strong as tempered steel.

One I choose to follow:

Be still. Be still. Be still.